


"Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope."

by Likorys



Series: Tumblr snippets [9]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, sometimes they don't work, sometimes with enough work they work despite the problems, soulmates get messy when you mesh toghether dozens of worlds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: Jaskier is mortal and his soulbond only works for him. Doesn't mean he's not gonna work his damndest to make it happen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Tumblr snippets [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651510
Comments: 2
Kudos: 93





	"Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope."

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote by Gregory David Roberts.

The Conjunctions bought many worlds into one, melding realities and magics and creatures into one, seas flooding valleys and mountains growing from green valleys.

Some things cannot be mended, though. No world has shared the way destiny links her choices, no world repeats the same kind of bond.

Soulmates prevail but fade into obscurity - for it’’s better to think yourself colourless than wait for a match that will pass you by without another thought; it’s better to burn out the marks when others adorn themselves with tattoos; and it’s better to ignore the tune fo your heart-song if it shall fall into deaf ears.

Jaskier’s always been a romantic, though. He didn’t care for his parent’s scorn as he hummed his childhood away with a slow and steady melody. He has no words to match, those will come (should come) from his match, but he can count.

_One-two, one-two, one-two three-four, one-two three-four five-six._

He taps it on anything he lays his hands on - his leg during lessons, the desk in Oxenfurt, the floor as he performs, warm skin in bed. The melody carries in his heartbeat, flows on his breath, thrums in his veins.

When his parents pay a mage to silence it he runs from home and never sets food in Redania again. He sings, he gets mocked, he survives on scraps and when he’s trying to catch some sleep in a barn left open, he huddled around his lute and taps the strings silently in a familiar rhythm.

_One two-three, one two-three, one-two three-four five-six._

When he meets his match, he’s not given the words of their song. He’s lucky to get _any_ words from Geralt, so he never asks.

What does do is keep the melody around them, whenever they’re alone. As they ride on Roach, as he washes his hair and bathes him, as he watches him fight from a safe distance, as he sits by his bed at the healer’s house and waits for him to wake up. He taps it onto his stomach as he sits behind him on the saddle, as he smooths out muscles stiff from fights, as he drags him to dance around their fire, as he holds him close in bed, as he kisses it into his skin.

He waves the notes into every second of their lives, until they’re as familiar as Geralt’s slow heartbeat of the smell of chamomile. He brands their time with it an makes up his own words.

He doesn’t need destiny to tell him what he already knows.

_My-love, my-love, my-fear less-love, I-will not-say good-bye._

_Sea may-rise, sky may-fall, my-love will-ne ver-die._

Jaskier is human, unfortunately. He’s human and as the years pass, he becomes more painfully aware of the incoming end. Of symphony turning silent, no more notes and only on empty pages.

So he uses his time wisely. He follows Geralt to Kaer Morhen for winters and teaches him to play - as a way to pass time, he lies, and Geralt says nothing when the melody of Jaskier’s soul it forever imprinted onto sword-calloused fingers.

_Go-on, go-on, go-brave ly-on, in-to the-bla ckest-night_

Jaskier is human and like all things mortal, he dies. He does so safe within a pair of strong arms, coughing blood and with dozen too many holes in his chest to do more than gasp his dying wish.

“Keep my lute” he gaps because he’ll be damned if he lets destiny take everything from Geralt. He might not hear their song from the world, but Jaskier made sure to give it to him regardless. “Play it - for me.”

For times such as this, when the music’s finished, the instrument fall silent and all you can do is hope the ink drying on the pages will be kept safe.

_Hold my-breath, ‘til-your re-turn, my-love will ne ver-die._

The next time, destiny is kinder.

Astra is born with body covered in birthmarks - small holes with lines spreading outwards (almost like arrow-scars), hence her name. She’s born to silence and spends the first two decades of her life baking bread and sweets, carrying them around town and sneaking away to listen to bards tell grand stories and sing about the mighty deeds.

She likes the ones about White Wolf the best and feels guilty about giddiness she overtakes her one warm afternoon, when her parents whisper about old Sarah, butcher’s mother, dying to a monster and witcher being sent to investigate.

She’s swaying as she walks alongside a rickety stone wall on the edge of the village, a chamomile wreath on her head. It’s summer, it’s noon and it’s only crickets that interfere when she hears a soft tune of a lute.

The world implodes into a long-forgotten chorus, as her heart joins in the melody and her soul _sings_.

She lad on the ground with a shout and when she opens her eyes again, there is a witcher kneeling by her, mouth moving as he asks something she can’t hear because the world is alive with the words they were once robbed of by cruel twist of fate.

She tackles him onto the grass with a laugh and rests her forehead onto his. She smiles, tears blurring witcher’s face as she hums, fingers tapping out on his temples.

“ My heart, my heart, my drowning heart… Oh, all the tears I’ve cried…” she sings, slow and gentle, the world swaying to the rhythm as everything is finally right again. “Oh, I may weep forevermore… my love will never die.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post by @yappingjaskier and @witcher-and-decay, to be found here: https://witcher-and-decay.tumblr.com/post/611590308430512128/decades-later-people-wonder-about-the-witcher-who


End file.
